


On Top

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Series: Of Spitfires & Love Songs. [1]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, kind of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: And, in a way, Farrier is just fine with being forgotten about. Maybe then they'll finally get some peace.





	On Top

**Author's Note:**

> Something about this song had me thinking of these two. Be gentle with me, this was written to avoid doing an English essay. Enjoy!

_The day is breaking, we're still here_  
_Your body's shaking, and it's clear_  
_You really need it, so let go_  
_And let me feed it, but you know._

 

Light filters gently through the slatted blinds, casting pale blocks of white across the room, illuminating the cracked paint on the walls and dust lining every surface. Farrier imagines the sunrise to be a beautiful one, not an explosion of colour, more a subtle shift, the pale light of dawn coating London in a deafening silence, the great city beginning to stir from its short-lived slumber. He doesn't stand up from the bed to watch the sun drag itself up into the sky, nor does he open the window to feel the crisp breeze against his face.

Because all the calm and beauty Farrier needs is below him, squirming and huffing, body flushed like a red dawn, eyes hooded and glassy like morning dew. They've barely slept, both too afraid that succumbing to their exhaustion will force them back to a reality that they cannot yet face. The world is too unforgiving for old souls like them, aged and weathered by years of survival, thrown back into a home they don't recogise. Here, writhing against one another, sheltered from the cold streets by itchy sheets and thin walls, they're _safe_.

They'd come together by coincidence more than anything else, bumping into each other in a dank bar frequented by veterans, their scarred fingers lacing together under a beaten table in a dark corner, very different men now but the great _thing_ between them still very much the same. Farrier now takes those same scarred hands in his own, pressing them into the creaking mattress either side of Collins' head, dropping his head to whisper words into his ear that mean everything and nothing all at once. Collins' back arches, and he says something that could be Farrier's name, the latter far too distracted by his fluttering eyelids and straining muscles.

The blonde's entire body is shaking in his arms as he places what is meant to be a calming kiss to a sweaty forehead, humming lowly when he catches that bundle of nerves in Collins again, the latter's legs tightening around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, dragging him down to kiss him with a gentleness that makes Farrier mournful. Mournful of what they could be if their world weren't so cold, and they weren't so tired.

Farrier takes his time memorising all of the new marks on Collins' body - the scars on his hands from shattered glass, a jagged mark on his side from gunfire, a scar across his left eyebrow that the blonde won't talk about - knowing the entire time that the man below him is doing the exact same thing. And he _should_ feel ashamed, he thinks, as Collins' now freed hands trace the raised scars on his back, chilled fingertips grazing lightly over the dent in his thigh.

But he doesn't. Because he knows Collins is feeling the exact same way, knows that Collins understands. They're men of war in a world trying to forget that one had ever happened. And, in a way, Farrier is _just fine_ with being forgotten about. Maybe then they'll finally get some peace. 

Collins is still holding something back, the look in his eyes still slightly guarded, hands unsure and hesitant on Farrier's shoulders, _barely_ able to maintain eye contact for more than a second. So Farrier pauses, a hand running soothingly down Collins' flank, pinning his hips down easily when he attempts to get them moving again. He pushes in close, so close that Collins has nowhere else to look but at his face, their eyes meeting for a second and an eternity; he starts shaking again. And Farrier just holds him through it, because the man _needs_ it, needs _this_.

_In the back of his mind a voice suggests that he needs it too._

_Maybe he does._

And the blonde chokes out a sob when Farrier leans in to whisper into his ear.  
" _Let go_." And Collins does, fingers tight in Farrier's hair, taking _everything_ the man is willing to give him with a fervour that makes the stale air around them warm. They stumble over the edge into oblivion together, bruises forming under white-knuckle grips, broken voices muffled by warm skin; Collins stops shaking, and his eyes clear, their gaze set solely on Farrier's face, memorising his features obsessively.

The sun has risen higher now, and Collins' hair is aflame where the orange light catches it, the shadows cast across his face making him look otherworldly. And for a moment, everything he's been through seems worth it. To get to see the man like _this_ , a lazy smile on his lips and his fingers playing gently with strands of Farrier's dark hair. There's so much to be said between them, so much has changed - _too much_ , a wiser man might say - and one day maybe they'll talk. One day Farrier will tell him about the camp. One day Collins will tell him about the scar above his eye.

_One day, they'll live again._

But for now, they're both more than happy to settle for this, curled in a pile of tangled limbs and scratchy sheets, sharing stolen kisses in the dawn light.

 


End file.
